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our work cut out for us to make King and Bartlett before we take a good soaking unless I am fooled by yonder clouds. Gee! but those trout smell moreish. Not one left? Loan me that rod and I’ll soon get a mess from the pool over there.” This proved an easy task, for squaretails of half a pound weight came readily to the fly and in ten minutes a half dozen were in the pan, well on their way to that place from which no trout ever returns. While casting below the dam, Harry Pierce's buckboard appeared on the south bank of the stream and plunging into the quick water where depth was to the body of it, two husky animals drew it across a rocky fording place, scrambled up the opposite bank and, with much creaking and clattering, the outfit passed along the way north. “Guess I’d as soon walk across the dam as take a chance that way,” remarked Clyde. “Driver had to stand on the seat, with everything afloat under him. I'll bet your mackinaw is a bit damp around the edges, Jack.”

“Nothing I have with me is too good for hard usage, you croaker. Can't keep your hair parted

and wear a stand-up-dickey with patent leathers in this country. Anybody would think you had never smelled balsam for weeks at a time in the Maine woods with a fine prospect of eating your peck of dirt all in a bunch when I do the cooking. You'll make less of those funny cracks when this tramp is over, for its a fairly long trail into camp and by no means asphalt, though a good way from being

“A FIXTURE ABOUT KING AND BARTLETT Is GEORGE DAY.”

downright bad. You'll have a fine chance to break in those new moccasins before night.” “Then let's get a move on. Your legs are longer than mine and I don’t like the way you swing them when you are rushing. Which road?” Direction from the driver: “First road to the left after crossing the stream and first trail to the right, down to Little King, where you'll find a boat. Go up the lake to the landing and cut off about three miles by taking a path from the re to camp.” Pressing along in the wake of the buckboard rattle, a trail soon appeared and was so well travelled that they started that way and went half a mile before they discovered it ran parallel with Spencer Stream. “We're in wrong, Clyde; this must be the trail to Dead River. Right-about face l’’ “Wish I'd hung back there till you got over investigating. Another mile added to our hike. Got a ny m or e guesses?”

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“Who might you be?” “The man who always arrives sometime. You just paddle along on your feet handles and I won't lose you. If you kick. I'll duck you in the first spring hole.” “Huh ! Never saw your name among those in the President’s cabinet. Show me.” “Will if you have your lamps open when we land. Just keep digging, that's all.” The stride that fits Broadway must be made over for wood roads and it was no wonder that a dozen miles of

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‘‘IT WAS AN EASY MATTER TO APPROACH witHIN SIxTY YARDS ’’

new gait was beginning to make a little impression on muscles little used for ten months out of the year, especially when hills and valleys alternated in quick succession, but they pushed on at fair speed. Occasionally when the grade was long, Clyde would give forth a yelp and declare that particular hill had no summit this side of the moon, and celebrate his error by droll remarks upon the beauty of the landscape “nearer heaven than he ever expected to be.” The object of this trip through the Dead River region was to get a line upon the game resources of that section of Maine's happy hunting grounds and oring back pictures to provide illustrations for outing articles to appear in

THE NEw ENGLAND. No idea of killing was entertained, for long experience had demonstrated the far greater pleasure of seeking close intimacy with the children of the wilds and reproducing them and their haunts for the enjoyment of those who are often denied the experience. By all odds the finest weapon for quick shooting is the snap-shot camera, unless it be the deft touch of pencil or brush under the hand of a nature lover. Yes, and the work is more lastingly pleasing than that which lays game low at one's feet. lacking the graceful life that made it beautiful. Killing for the sake of killing—never. Taking from the store of good things in the woods what one needs for the support of life and health and when the meat is used, a trophy for den or dining-room—YES; but in the great majority of cases, bring back one of God's best gifts, a beautiful picture, which you may be able to share with your friends as the result of confronting bits of paradise with pencil and pad or a sensitive plate or film. You have done no violence. You are the world's benefactor. Keeping then the real object of the expedition constantly in mind, our friends were ever on the alert with cameras in hand, noting numberless signs and hoping to catch deer unawares, in which they succeeded in four instances, making exposures which, unfortunately, were a trifle undertimed on account of adverse conditions under the trees and increasing cloudiness. The climax came in a steady downpour of rain which lasted until away into the evening after arrival in camp. Watching carefully for the Little King trail, they soon came upon a note set in the crotch of a stick in the middle of the path: “No boat at this end of the lake, keep on along the road,” and with hearty appreciation of the driver's thoughtfulness, it was not long before they reached one of the most complete outing establishments in the entire north country and were snugly quartered in a log cabin, not the least important provision for comfort in which was a cheerful open fire, before whose ruddy warmth wet clothing was soon dried. Let the storm rage, for does not the patter on the roof make merry music? What more conducive to contentment than the sense of rest well earned within a perfect shelter? What more soothing than this complete surrender to sympathetic oneness with nature's moods? With nothing lacking to promote perfect satisfaction in material things, and a sense of fullness beneath the belt line that at first seemed superlative in degree as the result of tarrying too long at dinner, the evening swept along to bedtime with a running accompaniment of stories, songs and jests, that aided

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digestion by provocation to incessant laughter. “Before we hit the hay, Harry, tell me, have you heard from “But,’ he of the artistic touch, keen good humor and all-round good comradeship that makes his presence more than welcome?” “Not for three days since he left Beantown, on his way east. I’m expecting him every minute.” “And here he is.” Into the charmed circle stalked a tall chap, dressed in woolens and black slouch hat. watersoaked and lame from riding horseback from Eustis. “By the ringtailed bobcat that stole my best girl's small brother, don't let me hear anyone suggest any other way of coming in than on my tootsey wootsies next time. Bless that horse, he went down on all his fore legs when we crossed the Spencer and I took a header into the drink. Got up again and went down again—me on again, off again and almost gone again, before he quit the overhand racing stroke. He's a mud turtle, that animal. Ain't I a washed drawing? See my finger pointing skyward P. NEVER AGAINT’’ When laughter subsided and the newcomer went out for a “spasm of eats,” Clyde turned to Jack with questions regarding the outfit of easels, paletts, paints, etc., he expected to see produced. “If he's going to sketch good things on this trip, his paraphernalia must have been shipped in ahead, for he came empty handed to-night. I'm anxious to see some of his work since you say he's so good. When will he be ready to move?” “Any minute. Metropolitan news work has taught him all that, and as for tools, a pencil or smut from a smudge kettle, with any old plain surface to draw upon is good enough for him. Why, I have seen him use fungus for a mixing board in lieu of a palette or a flat rock, and depend upon birchbark for his canvas. You won't see him measuring proportions with a pencil gauge before his eye or fussing for a plumb bob. This man knows proportion and perspective, has a remarkable grasp of the essentials in artistic composition from the right viewpoint. There you are. That's ‘But.’” “That listens good to me. Why don't you save your films for other uses and get this Hunter's Eldorado in black and white with his assistance?” “We'll try both and then choose, Bright Eyes. Now beneath that canopy for yours before he comes back or there'll be no sleep to-night. No birthday parties the first evening in camp. Enough of those anon.” A half hour later, “But” found all quiet in Camp Granite State, two figures in bed and his own cot inviting him. For a moment he stood awaiting some salutation which presently came in the shape of a smothered snore, then turned in with a muttered, “Don’t see anyone dispensing any oil of joy about here,” and went off to sleep without further protest. Several times during strenuous dreams Jack heard him ejaculate, “Whoa, you mutt!” as he rode the trail once more. When jollied about his lameness next morning, he retorted: “No wonder—rode all day and all night.” “Was that horse well broken to the saddle?” “He might have been—I don't know, but I am positive I was broken on it. It seemed to me to have more bumps than a phrenologist's dummy I got rubbed hard on them all—that's a cinch. Don't talk about it—even thoughts on that subject hurt.” A fixture about King and Bartlett, both summer and winter without whom the place could never seem quite the same, is George Day, than whose wisdom regarding this locality, there is none better. One has not to resort to strategy to secure information from him, it is always the real thing and may be depended upon. What more natural than that he should be asked to designate some spot most likely to furnish good models for the pencil? He immediately replied: “Porcupine— in that cliff on King and Bartlett Mountain. See them plainly through glasses. Like maggots in cheese.” Following this tip, after breakfast

was dispatched, the trio climbed the mountain to a position commanding a fine view of the face of the cliff which was about a hundred yards distant. As the warming rays of the sun penetrated the myriad holes that were there, the porcupine colony became very active, working in and out in all directions, until it required but a slight stretch of the imagination to transform the great mass into Day's cheese and the tenantry into maggots. The place was fairly alive with them and “But” sketched to his heart's content and to the infinite entertainment of the others as they saw his creations take on character and shape. Rough suggestions of background were filled in that night and really breathed of wild life, such a difficult, almost impossible, effect to produce when sketches are made in parks or zoos. To him who, in pure affection, steps within her portals and seeks to know her well, Dame Nature unbosoms her

self of her choicest treasures, gives them the right settings and properties

and says to her admirer: “Do me justice” With the spirit of the woods whispering in his ear and the added inspiration to be drawn from a never palling environment, could less be expected? Upon approaching camp at the close of the afternoon, shouts and sharp yelps greeted them, while from all directions people were seen running toward the woodshed, armed with every sort of weapon from paddles to peavies. “What's the fuss? Got a camp afire or has someone brought in a new barrel P” “Hedgehog in the shed Hang onto those dogs! The pesky critters never know enough to let one alone and when they have their own way get peppered with quills. Funny what fools some dogs are. Had a bull terrier once that got stuck all over with those things and I had to haul his head down to a heavy staple in the ground and pull them out with forceps. He would let go a little howl when I’d get hold of an extra long one and every time I pulled, the blood would follow the quill. Guess I extracted more than a hundred of those things and when I let Bill go, he just stood and looked at me with his tongue hanging out and his legs wobbling. “There, you bow-legged chump! Reckon that'll be just about enough porcupine for you until long after cherries are ripe, eh? You got yours good and plenty—now don't be a hog; know when you have a feast and call it off,” was my parting shot at him, as he staggered back from a pail of cold water in the face and slunk under the barn floor. Would you believ it?—not three weeks went by before he tackled another, filled his face with the darts, some of which pierced his eyes and I shot him. Dogs have no sense with these bristling chaps. Even Irish must be kept away.” By this time the fierce-looking visitor was cornered and a love pat across the nose cut short his visions of fame among porcupines should he escape to tell the tale of his battle with humans. He was taken into the woods, buried in a deep hole and rocks were thrown on top of him to prevent the dogs from digging him up, for his power to make things unpleasant for them remains with him, even in death. That particuiar specimen gave “But” a fine opportunity to study anatomical detail, and he took advantage of it. “Taint often you are specially favored as I am. Rubbered them for a sketch all afternoon and now one throws out his chest and comes into camp to talk it over. It's a great country with polite hedgehogs in it.” That evening at a “birthday party,” to which all men were invited, stories of all varieties pertaining to wood life were in order and the hours passed rapidly. Maurice, over in the corner near Fred Allen and a big Elk from Livermore, was finally importuned for a bear story, but showing unwillingness to contribute his experience, the camp proprietor did it for him. “One day last summer, Maurice started away for the spring up there on the summit, swinging from a beam

across his shoulders two empty pails. At the top of the hill he started to fill them, when, to his surprise, he heard: "Woof,’ from behind some bushes nearby. No woofing' should drive him from his work and he took a step in the direction of the sound, but brought up suddenly as he heard vigorous scratchings beyond a big spruce and another emphatic ‘Woof. “Bear! shot through his mind, and, with one wild glance over his shoulder, he leaped to the road and charged into camp. George and I were patching a canoe when he tore along the trail, gasping for breath. “Seen a ghost? What's biting you?” “‘Bear! Holy Smoke? — weighed four hundred pounds sure. Up there by spring—nearly got me—heard him grab at a tree and tear the bark all off just as I got away.' “A bear as near as that in broad daylight—did you see him? “‘Did I see him—sure—no, I guess I didn’t, but he was a buster from his growl.' “‘Come on, Irish,' called Harry, and followed by his dog and all the men of the camp, he struck the uptrail. There at the spring was a puddle nine feet across and in the centre of it floated Maurice's hat. In a frenzied leap from the farther side he had cleared the water and shed his head tiling in mid-air—guess that's going a few I could find no trace of bear tracks, neither could Irish, so I smelled a large-sized polecat somewhere in the thrilling tale. Sure enough, one of my guides came along just then and standing close beside Maurice, “woofed' suddenly. The fugitive went right into the air and George grabbed him to hold him on earth and prevent a stampede, while we roared in unison at his panic. With a gasp of relief Maurice made a lunge at the guide and yelled: “If you're the bear, I'll be a bear killer right now in dead earnest if you'll tell me what music to have for your funeral. This game cost me a year's growth.’ “‘Well, you'll know what to expect of yourself if you're ever up against the

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